


The Message

by Elizabeth Perry (watersword)



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M, Melancholy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-08
Updated: 2006-07-08
Packaged: 2017-10-10 11:02:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/99030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watersword/pseuds/Elizabeth%20Perry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The message comes through.  Every time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Message

A man lay deeply asleep on a couch stained with paint, and spilled drinks, and one memorable encounter between a jar of canned tomatoes and an organic Hungarian seaweed facial mask. A tattered paperback dangled from his fingers, and when he stirred, it dropped silently to the floor, scattering pages like memories.

A phone rang in the next room, but he did not hear. The message on the answering machine unreeled, unhurried, uninterested, and he mumbled at the sharp beep that split the air. It was only at the sound of the caller's voice that his eyes slitted open against the late afternoon sunlight, and after a few words, his mouth twitched. Almost a smile, or a grimace, but not large enough to be either.

"Hi, Vig," the voice from however many miles away said. "It's me, I guess you're out, just like the last couple times I called. Sorry to miss you again, I miss you, that sounds stupid, call me, okay? Just —" there was a pause, and the sound of an indrawn breath, and then the man on the other end continued, "Nothing new to tell you about. Johnny says hello. I — I've got to go."

Viggo closed his eyes when his caller hung up, and appeared to doze again. It was long minutes later that he whispered, "I love you too."

He had not been out when Orlando had called before; he had listened to the messages as they were being left. The first time, he had almost picked up just as Orlando had said goodbye, but his hand had been a split second too late. He'd missed his cue, or rather, it had not been given, and only the dial tone had greeted him.

The second time, he had listened from the other side of the kitchen table, as though it were a shield. As though three feet of pine between him and the thin thread of tape that held magnetic proof of Orlando's words would be enough to protect him. Afterwards, he had gone outside, to where the tomato plants were just beginning to show green buds, and savagely torn up the weeds surrounding them.

This had been the third time. He did not want there to be a fourth.


End file.
